


Raising a King

by VSSAKJ



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canada, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8848057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: Jean-Jacques Leroy wasn't born a king, but he didn't become one alone, either.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly written to indulge my Canadian nostalgia, because I am far from home and haven't seen real snow in years.

Before even the chickens were awake, Jean-Jacques was ready for action.

Alain lay in bed and listened to the morning bumps, thumps, and rustles of his son’s daily routine. Every morning, Jean-Jacques burst into waking like a firework, rolling from the top bunk of his bed and landing in a crouch on the floor. That was the first thud—it was followed by a sequence of quick, pattering steps as he hopped upright and jogged in place for a shivery moment before he dove into his drawers for sweatpants and a t-shirt. His chest of drawers always gave a groan when Jean-Jacques pushed them shut. Alain kept his eyes closed and remembered the quieter steps of the pattern: Jean-Jacques wriggled out of his pajamas and always pushed one leg into his trousers before he remembered to change underpants. Then he sat down heavily on the floor to pull woolen socks up to his knees. The distinct, heavy punch of ice skates against the door frame let Alain know what to expect next.

Jean-Jacques flicked the hallway light on and stood in the doorway to his parents’ bedroom, a looming five-year-old shadow with hands on tiny hips. He was never quiet. “Maman! Papa! You said I could go to the rink before school!”

Nathalie elbowed him in the middle while she fumbled towards the digital clock at their bedside. She groaned and pressed her face back into the pillow, muttering, “We said 4:45 Jean-Jacques, it’s only 4:20. Please, go—”

Alain pressed a hand to her shoulder to quiet her and propped himself up on one elbow, peering through the dark to meet his son’s bright eyes. “I’ll take you. Are you ready?”

Jean-Jacques nodded excitedly, then shook his head and bolted out of the doorway like a sling-shot stone. Alain sighed heavily as he left the cosy warmth of their bed and set his feet on the cold wooden floor. There was no stopping their Jean-Jacques when he set his mind on something. That was just the boy they had.

He pulled out a pair of worn jeans and a plaid fleece shirt, and settled down on his end of the bed to pull on socks and his heavy work boots. He placed his cap upon his head before he leaned down to kiss Nathalie on the cheek, and he smiled again as Nathalie sighed contentedly in her resumed sleep. Far be it from him to ever deny either of them.

He heard the sound of Jean-Jacques clattering down the stairs and stumped out of their bedroom after him, huffing to warm himself up. The old farmhouse _would_ warm, throughout the day, but at this hour, before the barest hint of dawn, it always felt freezing.

Jean-Jacques was sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling cereal into his mouth. His eyes widened when Alain stepped in, and milk splashed onto his chin as he spoke, “I’m ready Papa, really!”

Alain laughed, pushing a napkin across the table towards his son. “Mind your manners, Jean-Jacques. There’s enough time.”

“But I want _more_ skating time.” Jean-Jacques swallowed his last mouthful and rubbed his face vigorously with the napkin.

Skating, this winter. Last year, it had been running rampant in the woods and chasing wild rabbits, clambering up trees and balancing across fallen logs, all scabbed knees and bloody palms. Jean-Jacques took fancies the way other children took sweets, and it was all Alain could do to keep up with him. But Nathalie wanted nothing less than his utter happiness, and happiness came and went at the speed of light with Jean-Jacques.

Alain leaned down to ruffle his son’s hair. “Let’s get going, then.”

Jean-Jacques sprang from the table and hurtled into the front entrance, out the door with unlaced boots and his coat flapping from one arm. He opened the door of his father’s pick-up truck and clambered into the passenger’s seat, sitting tall even as his teeth chattered. In his lap, he clutched his skates with mittened fingers.

Alain closed the door to the house and gazed up at the still-starry sky, appreciating that the heavens had seen fit to keep clear of snow this early morning. Still, the wind bit through his parka as he twisted the key in the cold lock on their front door and joined Jean-Jacques in the truck. The engine whined loudly as Alain tried to start it, struggling and coughing before it sputtered to life. Jean-Jacques began to wriggle back and forth with excitement as his father reversed down the bumpy drive; Alain shook his head and spoke, “Make sure your belt is done, Jean-Jacques. You’ll let Papa get a coffee, won’t you?”

For a moment, it looked like Jean-Jacques would protest—all skating time was precious to him—then he strapped his belt in and asked, “I can have a hot chocolate, can I?”

“Of course, JJ.” Alain smiled warmly as they finally reversed onto the dirt road at the end of their drive. After a few minutes of rumbly silence, they met the paved road and turned right; then Alain flicked the radio on. Michel Lapointe’s voice followed the jingle for Que L’Outaouais Se Lève, echoed in a hum by Jean-Jacques. The outdoor rink was only fifteen minutes away, and halfway through the journey Alain pulled through the Tim Horton’s drive-through to order their drinks. A sleepy teenager passed them out through the window, along with a box of twenty plain Timbits, which Alain wedged carefully between Jean-Jacques’s skates and chin. His son grinned at him and shifted about until he could pop one in his mouth.

The rink was modest, empty, and illuminated by one less spotlight than usual. Alain frowned up towards the missing light as he cut the engine; before he could speak, Jean-Jacques had already pushed the door open and hopped down to the ground, trooping across the parking area towards the rinkside bench.

Alain sighed and stepped out of the warmth of his truck’s cab. Jean-Jacques had already learned great confidence on the ice and insisted he needed no help, but Alain felt guilty and a bit ashamed if he didn’t join his son in cold solidarity.

Startlingly serious, Jean-Jacques skated two easy laps before he stretched out, mimicking the Foreurs warm-up routine. His skates were hardly tight enough, Alain noted, but Jean-Jacques refused to let anyone else touch his skates. Back and forth Jean-Jacques went, looking exhilarated as he went faster and faster. Alain couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sound of blades on ice as the sky began to lighten. He’d almost begun to feel warmer when Jean-Jacques inhaled and suddenly leapt from the rink.

“Shit!” Alain shouted as Jean-Jacques crashed to the surface, sliding along the ice into the bank of snow at the edge of the rink. He ran around to the side of the rink and grabbed a hold of Jean-Jacques by the shoulders, pulling him upright and demanding, “What do you think you’re doing, boy?! You’ll get hurt like that!”

But the light in Jean-Jacques’s eyes told Alain there would be no turning back: Jean-Jacques had tasted something new, and he wanted more. Panting and excited, Jean-Jacques pushed out of his father’s grip and exclaimed, “But Papa, it’s fun, I love it! I’m going to keep jumping, every day, and I’ll never fall again!”

Alain sat back on his heels, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. What would he tell Nathalie when she saw the bruises Jean-Jacques was sure to develop? What would he tell himself when she encouraged this new passion of Jean-Jacques’s? He sighed and made a beckoning gesture. “All right, all right, I won’t stop you. But if you let me tighten up your laces, you’ll do even better jumping. And we’ll need to get you some real lessons, so you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I _won’t_ hurt myself.” Jean-Jacques retorted immediately, glaring at his father. A moment later, he skated over to the bench and stuck his foot out, waiting for Alain to tighten the laces.

 

Jean-Jacques did fall again.

Nathalie huddled beneath the heaters in the arena and rubbed her hands together, watching Jean-Jacques’s skating lesson with rapt attention. Ever since they'd put him into organised study, he'd learned voraciously, always demanding more from the poor teenage volunteers who gave up their Wednesday evenings to teach six- and seven-year-olds how to skate. In every aspect other than enthusiasm, he was a terrible student: he listened only until something caught his attention, and then tried too quickly to achieve the end result, without following the correct steps. The best quality he had, Nathalie had long-since realised, was tenacity; there was no way her JJ would ever give up.

Nathalie winced sympathetically as her son thumped to the ice for the third time since their warm-up had started and a volunteer skated quickly to his side. He was already halfway to his feet when the girl crouched down next to him and offered her arm so he could lift himself, but he pushed her away and skated off on his own. Nathalie rubbed her heavy belly and wondered if their next child would be a skater, too, as wild as Jean-Jacques and as much of a troublemaker… their second little one wasn't here yet, and already she was imagining a third. The baby kicked, as if responding to her thoughts, and she winced again, happier this time.

“Come on, JJ…” She heard herself murmuring, quieter than could ever be heard down on the ice, and this time, he did it. A great inelegant leap and a roughshod, two-footed landing, but the first thing Jean-Jacques did was whirl around to search for her in the stands. When he caught her eye he raised both fists in the air and waved with firm, bright excitement. He looked so proud that Nathalie felt obliged to wave back, grinning.

She didn’t know what his priorities would be as he became a young man old enough to have them, not really, but she knew she’d do anything to support his happiness. The glowing pride on his face was worth all the trouble in the world.

Alain sidled down the aisle and settled next to her, blowing on his fingers before gratefully holding them up towards the heat. “How is he doing?”

“He's fallen a bit, but he landed one, too.” Nathalie leaned her head on Alain's shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. She sighed with contentment and went on, “What are we going to do?”

“About Jean-Jacques?” Alain asked; after she nodded, he shrugged a little and went on gruffly, “Whatever we can. We'll see what he wants. It all depends on that.”

“Do you think he'll be all right?”

“I do.” He squeezed her, warmly. “I think he'll do well.”

 

For the next several years, Jean-Jacques attended lessons twice a week with volunteers at the local rink. He excelled as time went on; many children came and went, but Jean-Jacques remained. Almost every evening in the winter, he went to that same outdoor sheet of ice where he'd first started skating. He walked home with red cheeks and ears, but always bursting with excitement about whatever challenge he'd set for himself and managed to achieve. He ate the meal that had been cooked and then set about doing his homework, as single-minded as a stalking barn cat. Nathalie and Alain had long learned that skating was an excellent motivator.

Nathalie, holding onto Philippe and little Léonie's hands, stood in the lobby of the local arena they’d come to know so well. Some days, she felt like they spent more time here than in their own beds, but she couldn’t possibly mind. Philippe was leaning away from her grip, pointing towards the slushie machine at the canteen and whining about how long they’d been waiting for JJ. Their skating lesson had finished right before Jean-Jacques's started, and it was all she’d been able to do to keep both children happy and enthusiastic about their brother's skating for the hour Jean-Jacques had on the ice.

Jean-Jacques appeared eventually, his skates slung over his shoulder, but rather than looking for his family, he was speaking over his shoulder to someone Nathalie couldn’t see. Then Jean-Jacques grinned and pointed in their direction, audible, “There, that’s my Maman.”

The person he was speaking to proved to be a young woman apparently in her twenties, with dyed silvery hair and a shaven undercut on one side of her head. Nathalie stood a bit straighter as the stranger approached with Jean-Jacques, puzzled but without reason to be suspicious or concerned. This woman looked… frankly, much too _cool_ to be visiting their humble little arena.

Jean-Jacques approached with the woman, who extended a hand—despite Nathalie’s occupied ones—and introduced herself, “I’m Romy. I come around sometimes when I’m scouting for new skaters. Sometimes these little rinks have the best potential.” She reached into her pocket and extracted a business card, which Jean-Jacques took, his eyes wide. Her expression finally broke, into a smile, “Your boy, JJ he says, he’s good. I think he could be a professional if he got some training. Has he been skating long?”

“Nearly as long as he’s been walking.” Nathalie laughed, a bit more high-pitched than she meant to sound, but Romy laughed too, a warm, rumbling sound.

“That’s best. Those are the best skaters. Give me a call if you’d like to discuss. We’d be happy to have him in our group. I’ll give you the details if you phone.” Romy checked her watch, then ran a hand through the long hair on one side of her face. “I have to leave now if I’m going to get back to Montréal today. Good luck, Monsieur Leroy.” She gave Jean-Jacques a nod before striding away, her legs long and decidedly limber.

Nathalie only caught herself staring after Léonie started tugging on her hand, sniffly and asking about dinner. She could see a different hunger in Jean-Jacques’s eyes, as he gazed after the departed Romy. Philippe finally wrenched free of her grip and went haring off towards the canteen, and the moment passed: it was time to be a mother proper again. Nathalie cleared her throat. “Jean-Jacques, go get your brother. Your father will have dinner ready and we can’t be late.”

“But what about—”

“We need to talk about that together. Your father, you, and me. I promise we will after dinner, okay JJ?” Nathalie lifted Léonie up onto her hip and began walking out of the arena, beckoning for her sons to follow. By the time she’d finished buckling Léonie into her carseat, Jean-Jacques was pushing Philippe into the other back seat and pulling down his seat belt.

On the short drive home, Jean-Jacques was silent, his hands balled into fists on his knees. He sat straight and tall, piling out of the car and opening the door for his little brother as soon as they came to a stop. He led the way into the house as Nathalie extracted Léonie, and by the time she’d gotten inside, Jean-Jacques and Philippe were already at the table, with Alain serving them portions of shepherd’s pie.

Alain smiled as Nathalie settled Léonie into her high chair and placed a plastic bowl in front of her. “Was it a good lesson today?”

“Some lady wants JJ to go skate with her.” Philippe spoke before anyone else could, and Nathalie sighed loudly.

“We’re going to talk about it after supper, Philippe.” Jean-Jacques said with seriousness only a ten-year-old could muster. Surreptitiously, he was eating as fast as Alain or Nathalie had ever seen. Philippe shrugged and went back to his food, while Nathalie made desperate motions with her eyebrows at Alain. He nodded, patient and quiet, and the meal went as quickly as dinner with three children could.

When everyone had eaten, Jean-Jacques began clearing the plates and Nathalie hefted Léonie from her high chair, giving instructions as she did, “Philippe, take your sister upstairs and get her ready for her bath. I’ll be there soon to help.”

“But I want—” Philippe began, but Alain cut him off.

“Off you go, Philippe. I’m sure JJ will tell you everything if you ask him.”

Satisfied enough with that, Philippe took Léonie’s hand in his and began the process of helping her up the stairs. Jean-Jacques returned from the dishwasher and sat carefully at the table, looking between his parents with a desperate glint in his eye.

Nathalie started by indicating Jean-Jacques’s pocket. “Give the business card to your father. Honey, this is a very big decision. We need you to be sure about this.”

Alain glanced quickly over the card before adding, “You’re awfully young to decide what you want to do, son. Your mother and I, we support you, but we want you to be happy, too, and becoming a professional skater will be a lot of work.”

“I already work!” Jean-Jacques leapt to his feet, slamming his palms flat on the table. “I watch figure skating on television to come up with practice for myself! I go to every lesson I have, twice a week, and I skate at the rink all the time! I’m already working. I’m already serious. I want to.” His gaze turned imploring, his words despondent, “Please, Maman, Papa. I want to.”

Alain gave Nathalie a questioning look, one she met with sad conviction. Neither spoke.

Jean-Jacques ducked his chin, pressing his palms together and adding, “I’ll still do all my homework. I promise.”

“Oh JJ.” Nathalie shook her head gratefully and extended her arms. Jean-Jacques met her embrace with a fierce one of his own; she stroked the shorn hair at the back of his head and wondered about how tall he was already. With Léonie still toddling around, it was hard to believe her firstborn little boy was only a couple years off being a teenager. She squeezed him tightly for a moment and then pushed herself to her feet, murmuring, “I need to go take care of Léonie’s bath. Alain, would you?”

Alain nodded, patting the surface of the kitchen table as an invitation for JJ to join him. “All right.” He said simply. “We’ll give this Romy a call and see what we can do for you.”

 

“First, you learn to say ‘yes’.” Jean-Jacques muttered to himself, pulling his laces loose and scowling when it took more effort than he wanted it to. “I’ve said yes so many times! I don’t want to skate like everyone else. I want to skate like me!”

“‘Like everyone else’ has always been good enough until now.”

Jean-Jacques jumped and looked over his shoulder; Romy was standing behind the bench with her hands on her hips, looking unimpressed. He hurried to his feet and turned around, gesturing widely, “I _was_ like everyone else before! I was a kid, small and short and skinny. Now…”

Romy tossed her head and straightened, voice sharp. “Now you’re getting taller than me, and you suddenly think the style of skating I teach is foolish?”

“No, Romy, you’re…” Jean-Jacques chewed his lip, arms crossed as he considered the words, “You’re an amazing coach. You taught me so much about figure skating, how to jump singles and doubles and how to be elegant and precise and cool all at once. You’ve taught me how to be coached, too.” Romy smiled as he said that, perhaps remembering how argumentative he’d been the first few months of their working together. Jean-Jacques smiled too, but went on, spreading his fingers, “I have ideas, though, and you don’t like them.”

Romy cleared her throat, with intent.

“Maybe they don’t work with your style?” Jean-Jacques tried again, grinning a little as he rubbed the back of his head, self-conscious.

“Better.” Romy nodded, and offered him a business card. Jean-Jacques’s eyebrows jumped as he read the name on the card and he gave her a searching, confused look. Romy shrugged her shoulders, then offered him an elegant bow, one arm extended to the left in a pose mimicking the end of a routine, “I’m afraid our time together is at an end, Monsieur Leroy. I am glad to be the one who found you, but now I give you up to coach Celestino, may he urge you to ever higher heights.”

“Celestino…” Jean-Jacques read the card over again, marvelling. Excitement began to pool within him, and unbidden he seized Romy in a two-armed bear hug. She oof-ed and remained stiff for a moment, but shortly relaxed her posture and patted him gently on the back in return. Jean-Jacques drew back, glowing with enthusiasm and pride. “Romy, thank you. For everything. Someday, I’ll show you JJ Style on the world stage, so watch for me!”

Jean-Jacques arranged his hands in a double-J pose, and Romy couldn’t help it: she laughed aloud. “Someday soon, Monsieur Leroy. Don’t keep your coach Romy waiting.”

“I won’t. Promise!” And Jean-Jacques was good at keeping promises.

 

Nathalie scrolled down the instagram feed, Philippe at her shoulder giving instructions. “Stop!” He said suddenly, pressing his finger to the screen, “There’s JJ, and there’s his medal!”

“My little boy…” Nathalie murmured wistfully, smiling at the twinkle in Jean-Jacques’s eye. He looked elated and proud, holding the bronze medal’s ribbon in his teeth and posing with his fingers curled into two J’s, a pose that he was quickly making iconic. Nathalie had watched the steady growth of a fanclub for her son since Celestino had put him into the junior circuit; commentators were certain Jean-Jacques was going to make history in the sport, something they’d pointed out at his first junior-performance, where he’d earned this particular bronze medal. He was tall, they said, and seemed suited to such a different style from the current names in the senior division—next year, they thought, he could be making a name for himself worldwide.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he was only seventeen.

The front door thumped open, and after the patter of feet down the stairs, Léonie’s shriek rang through the house. “JJ!”

Nathalie rushed into the front entrance to see Alain smiling widely at her as Jean-Jacques pushed his boots from his feet and grinned, “Hi, Maman.”

“I didn’t think you’d be allowed a break this time of the season!” Nearly as excited as her daughter, Nathalie gently extracted Léonie from Jean-Jacques’s waist so she could hug him properly. Training in Detroit had agreed with him, and he was a proper, slim young man. Taller than the photographs made him seem—taller than she remembered him being.

“And you!” She rounded on Alain, shaking her head, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He shrugged, but his defense came from Jean-Jacques.

“I wanted to surprise you, Maman. I have news, for both of you.” Jean-Jacques smiled at both of them, sliding his bag off his shoulder. It thudded to the ground heavily, bringing down his next words. “I’m not going to skate with Celestino next season.”

Nathalie blinked. “What?”

“JJ, why not?” Alain squeezed Jean-Jacques’s shoulder, tilting his head to one side. “It would be your debut senior season.”

Jean-Jacques ran a hand through his hair and smiled at them both, seemingly unconcerned, “We talked about it. We don’t get along. He thought he could understand what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to be, but I don’t fit in with his vision either.” He paused for only a moment, then walked towards the kitchen to meet Philippe’s fist bump. “I want to use my own music.”

Music had come up during Romy’s time, Nathalie remembered. The older Jean-Jacques had gotten, the more apparent it had become that music appealed to him nearly as much as skating, and one of the reasons why figure skating had so drawn him was the combination of the two.

It was clear that Jean-Jacques had no intention to speak on the matter any further for the moment, so Nathalie met eyes with Alain, who nodded, and they let the matter rest. All three of their children were safe at home: for now, that was all that mattered.

Later that evening, as they lay in bed, Alain raised the issue first. “Do you think anyone will take him seriously? Without a coach, his first year in the senior division? And so soon after he’s started…”

“Alain.” Nathalie lay on her side, her head cradled in the crook of his arm and shoulder, “What have we ever wanted but him being happy? We can’t encourage him to stay with a coach he doesn’t like. I won’t do it. I want him to be who he is, not who someone else says he should be.”

“I’m just worried he won’t be happy if he struggles for… well, reasons outside himself. He’s worked so hard. I reckon if he’s doing this well now, than he’s good enough to compete proper next year, coach or not.” Alain spoke with conviction, but sighed afterwards, wrapping a hand around Nathalie’s shoulder and squeezing it, “Maybe I just don’t want him to feel like he has to go it alone.”

“He knows we’re there for him.” On that much, Nathalie could be confident. If there was anything she could never doubt, it was that their children knew how loved they were.

“We are.” Alain murmured in agreement, before he frowned thoughtfully and murmured further, “We are, aren’t we…”

“Alain… ?”

“In the morning, dear.”

In the morning, Nathalie entered the den to find her husband peering at the computer screen with a pad of paper open beside him, scrawled with notes on how to qualify and register as a figure skating coach. She walked over to him and laid her hands on his shoulders, kneading them. Alain glanced up at her and said only, “We’d need to sharpen our skates, wouldn’t we?” In response, Nathalie smiled wide and hugged him tightly.

When Jean-Jacques made his way down the stairs, they asked if he would accept them as his coaches. Nathalie apologised for their lack of experience but assured him that their passion for his success would be more than enough. Alain promised to learn as much as he could about coaching as quickly as possible, so there was no way they could hold him back. For his part, Jean-Jacques managed to contain himself until his parents finished their plea, at which point he flung his arms around their necks and buried his face between them so they couldn’t see his tears.

After that, time flew. Jean-Jacques gave lessons between his own training sessions, and garnered attention for himself as the hottest up-and-coming Canadian skater of the year. He worked tirelessly, allying himself with a similarly up-and-coming rock band to attract even more international attention. He agreed to participate as the prize for a country-wide radio contest, never expecting it would bring Isabella into their lives; suddenly, Alain and Nathalie watched their son come to love something almost as thoroughly as he loved figure skating. Before even six months had passed, Isabella had become a fixture in their household.

They did better than expected: Jean-Jacques, Alain and Nathalie reached the Grand Prix Final, where Jean-Jacques took home a podium finish and a plethora of fans.

“This year,” Jean-Jacques was nineteen, and had presented them with a single, unlabelled disc, “I’m going to rule the world.” He grinned, wide and bright, and began to skate the program he intended to use in the upcoming season. Watching the Theme of King JJ being performed for the first time, Alain and Nathalie held each other’s hands and tried not to cry, as their son burned through the sky like a shooting star.


End file.
